


Anything But Myself

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Coda, Desperation and Martyrdom, Episode s11e18: Hell's Angel, Everyone Needs A Hug, M/M, Not As Much Alcohol As You'd Think, Profound Bond, Stormy Skies Before The Storm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 06:19:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6504235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night after a defeat is always a very long night. The good thing is, they're used to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Science of Desire

_I don't believe in anything but myself_  
_I don't believe in anything but myself_  
_But then you opened up a door, you opened up a door_  
_Now I start to believe in something else_  
_But how do I know if I'll make it through?_  
_How do I know? Where's the proof in you?_

Ingrid Michaelson, _Soldier_

 

Hours later, Sam still can’t believe he’s done it. The world is about to end - again - and yet he’s sitting in a movie theater in Lawrence, watching some Spanish movie, and thank God for subtitles, because he can _read_ Spanish just fine, but, fuck it, they do speak _fast_.

On his right, Eileen makes a slight movement. Her friend is on her other side - a chubby woman with a distinct kindergarten teacher look who’s still sort of glaring at him like she wants him to die some painful death. Sam is trying to ignore that, even if his instincts for that kind of look are always, always _Stab it first_.

This isn’t a monster, though. A werewolf, or a demon, or anything. This is simply a woman who knows enough about hunting - she’s lost her brother to a ghoul, Eileen told him - to know to stay the hell _away_. Apparently she does support the family in some way - translation and research - but she also cares about Eileen, and it's clear that the last thing she wants is to see her hook up with someone who has the lifespan of a gerbil.

And, well, she's not wrong. Sam is still feeling uneasy about the whole thing.

“Dude, just go,” Dean had told him, rolling his eyes, and Sam had frowned at him from the other side of the table.

“She’s not inviting me anywhere,” he’d pointed out, and just then, his phone had pinged.

“Yeah? What about now?”

Sam had read the latest text, something about a midnight screening of a foreign movie, and he’d shaken his head.

“Okay, maybe now she has.”

“God, you’re _hopeless_. Look, she didn’t tell you she was in fucking _Lawrence_ just to be polite.”

“She had no way to know we’d even be in Lebanon.”

“No way, uh? You sure about that?”

“Yes,” Sam had lied, very firmly, because there was no need for Dean to know he’d texted Eileen the second Amara had disappeared, just because - because -

The problem is, all those late night conversations with Eileen have been - nice. Over the last few weeks, Sam has sort of forgotten the harsh reality of it - Eileen being a hunter, or (even), Eileen being a _woman_ \- because her texts are clever and funny and mostly make him laugh out loud, even when the Bunker is all gloomy around him, and the world on the verge of not even existing anymore; even when his brother is hiding in his own room and won’t come out.

And, well, something deep inside Sam is still refusing to join the dots - those dots Dean can see without even reading what Eileen is texting him - without even knowing how _often_ they actually talk to each other.

Because there _is_ something there. Sam can feel it. When he’d sat beside her in the half empty theater, he’d felt like a kid all over again, and now - God, they’re being so _careful_ about not touching each other - Sam is basically all sprawled on one side, but he can’t help glancing at her profile from time to time, and he’s too well-trained not to feel her glancing back when he’s not looking. His survival is mostly about this, after all: noticing people looking at him.

Suddenly, Eileen’s friend stands up and walk away. A bathroom break, perhaps; or maybe she’s about to call the cops on him, because better to get him arrested before he can make a move and ruin Eileen’s life forever.

But, well: not a monster. Sam can't stop people from being people, and it'd be stupid to try.

And then he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, and that comforting lull of being anxious over stupid things (Eileen’s leg almost touching his, Eileen’s hand lying, way too casually, on her knee) immediately shifts into something black and blue and scorching hot - is this Dean? Has something happened? God, Sam had _told_ him this wasn’t a good idea, he’d said he wanted to stay, but Dean is such a stubborn -

“Look, if you go now, you can make it,” he’d shrugged. “And if you don’t, just wait for her somewhere. Strip clubs are open until four.”

“I’m not going to a _strip_ club.”

“Maybe she wants to.”

“Why would she want to?”

“Well, maybe she’s into the ladies. Ever thought of that?”

Sam had passed a hand through his hair in exasperation.

“No, I have _not_.”

“Because you think she’s into you.”

“ _Dean_ -”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t gay. I’ve been telling you to cut your hair for years.”

On that, Sam had turned around and walked away.

“And change your goddamn _shirt_ , you look like a hobo!”

Sam hadn’t stopped out of pride, but the moment he’d sat down in the car - not the Impala, because God knows Dean is _weird_ about it - he’d noticed the stains of wax and red paint and he’d hissed in annoyance. He’d briefly considered the indignity to walk back in and see Dean’s satisfied smirk versus the embarrassment to show up for a date in a dirty shirt, and then he’d realized that a) _not_ a date (whatever Dean seemed to think) and b) extra shirts in the emergency duffel on the back seat. 

Still, he shouldn’t have left. After Amara had disappeared with Lucifer and Cas, Dean had looked - ruined. He had stared at the empty spot for another ten seconds, then he’d shouted for Crowley (who hadn’t come back) and then he’d destroyed the two pieces of furniture in the room while Sam salvaged the books and the copper bowls and tried to act like his brother was behaving in a normal, sensible way.

And now -

 _Now would be the time to take my hand, if you were so inclined_ , the message reads, so, yes, not Dean.

Sam glances to his right, sees Eileen’s mouth twitch in amusement. Her left hand is still lying on her knee, and her right is closed around her small, practical phone.

Dean is right about one thing: Sam _is_ hopeless. Well, perhaps not - he’s more than capable to charm someone into a night of fun, but when it’s someone he really _likes_ \- he remembers, with a flash of pain, Amelia shaking her head in exasperation as she watched him fix her sink for the third time; Amelia saying, her hands crossed on her chest, _So, how many times do I have to hammer into that thing before you ask me out?_

What Dean tends to forget when he’s being a smug lady killer bastard, though, is that this is a family trait. Dean really has no business pretending he’s so superior when he hasn’t -

But: that’s not his business. And Sam, unlike Dean, is not a meddler.

God, he’d been annoyed by that for years - his stupid brother picking him up after school, looking cool as fuck with his leather jacket and his glossy black car (because in Sam’s mind, the Impala had always been Dean’s, not Dad’s), cocking his head to one side, interrogating Sam’s friends - the girls, that was - to find out why they weren’t shagging his kid brother, because _Let me tell you, if you’re looking for a good time, Sammy here will definitely give to you_. Yes, that had been mortifying and Sam had resented Dean for years, until -

It was the way Dean had looked at Jess when Jess had turned away. Because, well, of course, he’d been his usual self - obnoxious and flirty and as proud of Sam as a Jewish mother - at one point, Sam had feared Dean would ask Jess why they weren’t married yet - but then, once Jess had been distracted, Dean had been - Sam had seen a glimpse of relief on his face. Something deep and unreserved and incredibly _fierce_ , and then - then he’d got it.

Because Dean had realized at age twelve that a long life just wasn’t in the cards for him. He’d admitted as much during the last evening they’d spent together before Sam had left for Stanford - they’d both drunk almost enough to pass out and then Dean had cried and Sam had _begged_ him to come with him, and next they had fought, a brutal and vicious thing that had plagued Sam for months afterwards - pieces of that half-forgotten conversation would poke at his insides when he was walking to class, when he opened yet another book on Roman Law ( _I can’t leave him - he needs us, he’s_ family _. He’s trying to find the fucker who killed mom. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Family? Loyalty?_ ). And the heartbreaking thing is that (mostly) he seemed to be okay with it. Blast of glory, and all that bullshit. But with that single look to the back of Jess' head, Dean had given himself away. What was really eating at him (the thing he’d always feared) was that one day he'd die and Sam would be left alone. 

Which, well. No matter what he tells Dean about using his words and stop running, Sam gets it. He mostly tries not to think about any of that himself.

And even now - pushing Sam out of the Bunker after an afternoon of craziness and pain - what the hell was Dean _thinking_? That Sam would be able to, what, go on a date with Eileen and marry her right now and never go back and forget that his brother even exists, that Cas is trapped and about to die, that -

 _You’ve done it before_ , says the part of Sam’s brain that still speaks in Lucifer’s voice. _And, as I said, it was the worst thing you’ve ever done._

Sam looks down at Eileen’s hand, then at his phone.

 _I will probably die soon_ , he types. _There is nothing I can give you_.

He sees her read the thing, shake her head.

Without answering, she turns her left hand palm up.

And Sam takes it.

Eileen relaxes then, rests her head back against the seat. On the screen, there is some kind of car trip going on. It may not be a Spanish movie after all, because that looks like Mexico. Sam watches on as the car stops, and the ocean comes into view.

 _Life is like the surf, so give yourself away like the sea_ , the little white words say, and somehow, it sounds much less beautiful than the woman’s voice, like it isn’t a translation at all, but some kind of caption: dry and to the point.

Despite his misgivings, he squeezes Eileen’s hand and laces their fingers together. He looks down, sees her smile.

The thing is, it’s _really_ nice. Sam hasn’t had this since Amelia - just this quiet existing side by side, because you like someone and they sort of understand you and you can just breathe and be.

And then it all goes away - the cosy little cinema with its red seats, and the people living inside the screen, and the people living in front of it, and Eileen, who’s looking - God forgive him - very pretty tonight in a flower top and some kind of dangly silver earrings which glint in the half light. 

_This isn't a_ negotiation _. I have the high cards, and you have - hold on. Give me a second. Let me have a look -_

 _(_ It _? It's not an_ it _, Sam. It's_ Cas _.)_

 _-_ no _cards!_

 _This is the worst thing you’ve ever done_ , says Lucifer again.

Before he can think better of it, he turns around, bows his head against Eileen’s hair, nuzzles his nose against it (it’s pinned in some kind of bun, and it’s very soft, and it smells of some kind of fruit, and Sam knows exactly how it could look down - how it would feel trapped in his fingers) before kissing it, very lightly - he feels Eileen’s hand squeeze his, feels her starting to turn so she can tip her face up, and he -

“I’ll be right back,” he mouths at her, and he stands up and walks away.

He’d planned to drive back right away, but once he’s out in the lobby he finds his legs are wobbly - God, Dean is right, he’s such a wuss - so he shrugs his jacket on and stands in front of a 1950s movie poster and does his best to make his lungs work and be a man again.

“Ditching her, are you?”

So here is the friend. Did she walk out for this? To allow Sam to kiss Eileen? It seems the kind of thing women would do; the kind of thing they plan in advance and talk about - just normal stuff, that is; real life.

(Also: not _his_ life.) 

Feeling all kinds of wrongfooted, Sam looks at her, then away.

“It’s not like I _want_ to,” he says, going for noble and dignified and mysterious and landing on douchey Brando character. “I _have_ to.”

She looks him up and down, which is quite a feat, considering she's about two feet shorter than him; and then she smiles.

“Looks like I was wrong to hate you on principle.”

He’s so surprised he almost laughs.

“Thanks a lot.”

“So, what’s your line? Short lifespan, facing the enemy to end all enemies, a hunter’s life is not safe for a family?”

“All of the above,” Sam says, as she adds, “Or are you gay as well?”

“ _What_?”

“Eileen told me about your brother.”

“Dean’s not gay.” 

“Really? Her gaydar is pretty good.”

Sam is about to offer up some argument against all this, even if, of course, why even bother at this point, when he realizes something else.

“Why would a straight woman have a gaydar?”

“Not something you get to ask. Not to me, and especially not now.”

Sam doesn’t press the point. She’s right, after all.

(And it's not like it changes anything.)

“I can’t leave Dean,” he says instead. “Not now. And I want to stay, I want to - but that would be unfair to Eileen.”

Again, she gives him this look like she’s x-raying him, and, for God’ sake, she has no business looking so _threatening_ \- she’s just some girl, and she's not carrying any kind of weapon, _and_ she’s wearing a t-shirt with a pink _unicorn_ on it.

“I’ve met a lot of you guys in the last five years,” she says, slowly. “And they all have this line of, _Man, I_ wish _I could settle down, but it’s just too dangerous_.”

She takes one step closer, and she actually jabs her finger into Sam’s chest, like she’s a cartoon villain or something.

“But that’s not the _whole_ story, is it? The truth is, you’re damaged goods. You can’t handle relationships. You don’t know how to relate to normal people anymore.”

“That’s not true,” says Sam, without any conviction, and her face softens a bit.

“Isn’t it? What broke you, then? Dead girlfriend? Dead parents? Too much too young?”

Sam pushes his hand in his pocket, fishes the car keys out.

“Look, you got what you wanted,” he says, sidestepping her. “I’m leaving, okay? I’m going, so -”

She grabs his jacket.

“I wasn’t rooting for you to go,” she says, shaking her head at him like he's being incredibly stupid. “I wanted you to stay because _she_ wants you to stay. So if you’re not -”

“I _have_ to go, though,” he says, miserably.

“- you better come the hell _back_. Just get over yourself, okay? Whatever you’ve done, whoever died on you, you don’t deserve to be alone forever. And if she’s stupid enough to want you, you’d better fucking _take_ her.”

Now she looks fierce again, and Sam almost smiles. Dean would like her, he thinks. And she would definitely like their books.

“Tell her I’m sorry. If I make it out alive, I’ll call her back,” he adds, and then goes away without waiting for an answer.

As soon as he’s out on the street, Sam stops, takes a deep breath. Looks up at the sky, ignoring the light rain.

 _You don’t deserve to be alone forever_.

Maybe she’s right, but there is no forever here, so it hardly matters. And Eileen deserves so much better, anyway. 

Trying to chase the memory of her warm hand from his fingers, Sam walks back to the car, drives away, the city streets soon turning into something lonely and dark (the road back home).

And then he starts feeling it - something very far away, and yet so close to his skin he fears for a second that this is it - that he's going to burn and burn until there is nothing left. He brakes and reaches out, seeking blindly for the phone, but before he can even think about calling Dean, he realizes this has nothing to do with Dean.

No, this is -

Breathing heavily, he grits his teeth against it, pushes it back as the world around him gets darker and darker and his own soul shrinks and blackens inside him and it fucking _hurts_ , because this is not his pain and yet it is his to carry. But he can fucking _take_ it, and he fucking _will_ , because -

 _You have to be ready to die_ , says Lucifer's voice inside his head, and it is both a threat and a loving promise - it brushes against Sam's skin, and it takes all the air away.

_You have to be ready to die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _YAHWEH: You've been unhappy because you've desired things that cannot be._  
>  _LUCIFER: That's what desire_ is _. The need for what we can't have. The need for what's readily available is called greed._
> 
> Mike Carey, _Lucifer, Vol. 11: Evensong_
> 
> The movie they're all watching is Alfonso Cuarón's _Y Tu Mamá También_ (a masterpiece, imo).  
>   


	2. No Birdsong at All

Dean is staring at what, in someone else’s house (a grown-up house; a place with plants and framed photographs on the walls and fucking _windows_ ) would be the liquor cabinet - at what here, for them, is just a wooden crate on a kitchen shelf, filled with random bottles - whiskey, of course, but also vodka and gin and, for some reason, Bailey’s - when the bell rings.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, and he sort of braces himself, because if this is who he thinks he is, Dean is going to fucking _end_ him.

He makes a detour through the armoury to get a hugeass knife before climbing up to the front door; and then he opens it, and almost snarls when he sees Crowley standing there, all British and elegant and classy and almost rolling his eyes at Dean’s t-shirt (an old Metallica thing Dean now wishes he hadn’t changed into, because without his shirt he feels way too exposed).

“I come bearing -”

Dean doesn’t even wait for the end of the sentence; instead, he brings then knife up and then down, in a swift, brutal movement.

But, well, Crowley is Crowley, which means he actually catches the blade with his bare hand and doesn’t even flinch when the thing cuts him to the bone.

“- gifts,” he says, in disapproval, wrenching the knife from Dean without any effort whatsoever and somehow making it disappear inside his black suit. “Slightly peeved, are we? Is it that time of the month?”

“You fucking _asshole_ ,” Dean grits out; he doesn’t move forward, though. He still has some sense of self-preservation left, and he knows Crowley can’t come in without an invitation.

“Pardon?”

“Where the fuck did you _go_? Lucifer almost killed us, and then Amara showed up -”

“Yes, I know. I was in Japan by then. Kyoto is _lovely_ this time of year," he says, and Dean just stares at the thing - the _demon_ ; the King of _Hell_.

There is something rotten inside him, and he feels it now more than ever, because - because he’d _known_ that knife wouldn’t hurt Crowley. Because when Crowley had bitched about Lucifer, some part of Dean had understood; because whenever they meet Crowley, Dean is forced to measure his own behaviour against his brother’s, and he always, always finds himself wanting. After all, he’d been the one to actually step closer to Crowley and try to reason with him. He’d been the one to feel - well, he’d been amused and exasperated by Crowley’s protestations, by the demon’s bruised ego, but, unlike Sam, he’d taken no pleasure in hearing what Crowley had been through.

Which was definitely not normal; then again, Sam is not the one who meets Crowley for drinks when he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

(Sam is not the one who fell asleep next to Crowley in the darkness, calmed and lulled out of a savage thirst to kill by Crowley’s quiet voice talking about the marvels of Petra and the desert people and how Dean - the _real_ Dean, he’d meant, and not this abomination now staring up at the ceiling and licking blood off his fingers - would like them. How they would all drink hot mint tea from tiny glass cups and then go hunt a basilisk just for the hell of it.)

“Sure it is,” he grits out, but he’s lost already, and Crowley knows it.

When Dean steps to the side, though, he shakes his head.

“The Trap first,” he says. “Come on, Squirrel. I thought we were friends?”

“Yeah, well, we are _not_. And it’s not like you’re giving me any reason to _actually_ like you, so,” he says, in what was meant to be a threat.

But still - he walks back inside the Bunker, flips the tile on the ground which controls the Devil’s Trap by the front door, and then makes some kind of gesture - not welcome, exactly, but a sort of _Come the fuck in, if you really must_. 

And Crowley does.

“So, out with it. What do you want?” Dean says, without glancing back (even though his every instinct is telling him this is stupid and suicidal: never, ever turn your back on the King of Hell). 

“I saw your brother leaving. I thought you might be lonely.”

And Dean laughs. He can’t help it, even though it’s a bitter laugh that’s hurting his mouth and soul.

“God, is this what you _do_? Hide in the bushes outside our front door and wait for Sam to leave?”

Crowley huffs.

“There are no bushes outside your front door. They look like they’ve been hacked down with a blunt machete.”

“That’s perceptive of you. I did that to keep things like you from hiding in them. Clearly I need a better plan.”

“Don’t you always.”

Dean turns around then, and is about to say something very vicious, something along the lines of, _All that happened today was your fucking fault_ and _Jesus, we even saved your miserable life and you left us there to fucking die_ \- but when he sees how _fondly_ Crowley is looking at him, like Dean is some retarded puppy but also _his_ retarded puppy, he just scoffs.

Because the thing is, people who actually like _him_ are in very short supply. Dean’s not about to send one of them packing just because he happens to be a morally grey asshole and a killer. After all, pot and kettle and all that.

“So, what can I offer you? We’ve got leftover pizza, leftover Chow Mein, and expired milk.”

“Lovely,” says Crowley; and then he fucking stops by the table and fucking sits down. “But I’m okay, thank you. I had _fugu_ in my favourite -”

“Yeah, I was kidding. So?”

Again, Crowley’s eyes softens, as if he doesn’t mind Dean being rude; as if he actually basks in it.

“Look, you know I like it when you get all dramatic, but you were in no immediate danger,” he says, rummaging in the pockets of his suit. “Lucifer likes your brother, and, whatever he says, he’s still hoping Sam will give himself up. An archangel and his vessel: you have no idea how deep that bond cuts,” he adds, when he catches the skepticism on Dean’s face.

“Don’t make it sound like - like that,” Dean says, and he _does_ resent the way Crowley’s talking about this - as if Sammy could ever want this, on any level -

 _Well, Sam did say yes once before_ , a snide voice says inside his brain, and Dean turns it off.

“Do you have _any_ idea how much care and love there is in keeping a _specific_ person alive decade after decade - in making sure someone is not sent into battle, and marries the right woman instead - in overlooking what is an incredibly delicate mechanism?”

“Lucifer was in the Cage,” says Dean, curtly, and Crowley smiles.

“As I said: a very deep bond. Sam was always Lucifer’s destiny. Or, well: _one_ of his destinies. It could have been someone else, you know. After all, human beings are so _fragile_ \- a system that hinged completely on that one person breeding at the exact right time wouldn’t be tenable at all.”

“What?”

“Out of hundreds of possible vessels, Lucifer chose _Sam_. It was because of his - love - for Sam that your ancestors survived at all. I thought you knew this.”

Dean is never sure about Crowley, but he also knows, in some primal way, that Crowley (like Lucifer) never lies. He plays with the truth, and he omits things he’s not ready or willing to say, but he never lies.

Still, this is fucked up, and the disgust must show on his face, because Crowley’s smile widens.

“It’s because of Lucifer you’re alive as well, Dean,” he says, finally extracting two very small glasses from his jacket, and, next, a huge bottle which couldn’t have fit inside his pockets in any way. “Michael trusted in God. He never cared about vessels at all, because, well, he may be the good guy, but he’s also a dick and he’s never walked the Earth and he doesn’t _get_ it. You saw how happy he was to use your half-brother instead. To him, you didn’t matter at all.”

And this shouldn’t hurt. It really shouldn’t. A psychopath not giving a damn about him: good fucking news. 

But still, Dean remembers how he’d felt, in fits and start, as the Apocalypse inched upon them. The sudden sense of purpose - that it had all been for _something_ , that he was _special_ , even. That he wasn’t just the good for nothing son of a violent drunk but also - also -

Right.

“So, in a way, Lucifer created you both. Oh, don’t look so gloomy about it.”

“Sorry,” says Dean, and he was going for sarcasm, but he’s too empty even for that.

“Which means Lucifer wouldn’t have touched Sam, and Amara was bound to show up if he threatened you - and she did - and I - I saw no reason to stick around and get slaughtered. Someone must be the brains in this relationship.”

“It’s not - you're not - fuck you,” Dean says, but, again, the words are flat and meaningless.

“Here,” Crowley says, ignoring him and pouring them both a glass of what looks like water. “ _Dai ginjo_ from the Yamagata Prefecture. The real stuff.”

“What do you want, Crowley?” Dean asks, without touching his glass. “Why are you even here?”

Crowley takes a sip of _sake_ , then frowns when he realizes his bloody hand left a streak of red on the glass. He takes the time to pass his fingers on the cut and watch it heal before answering.

“You know why,” he says, and for a second, Dean panics, sure that this is going to become a conversation about - about -

“We need to come up with a new plan, and, luckily for you, I have one.”

Thank _God_. Dean is definitely relieved. Not disappointed. Like, at all.

“And also, it’s not good for you to get drunk on your own. Go on, then.”

“I’m not drinking that,” Dean says, and then he actually pushes the glass away from him.

“It’ll get you there much faster than whiskey, and I’m told the side-effects are negligible.”

 _I’m told_ \- right. As if Crowley were still a normal demon - a creature of pure darkness who can’t feel the effects of alcohol - who can’t feel, for that matter, anything at all.

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s awesome, but I’m trying to cut back.” 

And that's true. Dean had remained about ten minutes in front of that crate, but he hadn’t touched any of the bottles; and he likes to think he wouldn’t have, not even if Crowley hadn’t interrupted him.

“Are you now? What’s wrong? Turning your back on family values?”

“I promised -” starts Dean, without thinking; and the he remembers where he is and with whom, and shakes his head, hoping Crowley will think he meant Sam.

But Crowley is much sharper than he has any right to be, and he doesn’t.

“God, you’re _whipped_ ,” he says, after a long pause; but, again, his voice is not unfriendly. “Well, we do need to talk about Castiel, and I assumed you’d want to be drunk for that conversation, but if you don’t, be my guest. Certainly makes my job easier.”

Dean stands up so fast his chair falls back and clatters to the ground.

“Yeah, no. If you think - you shut up about Cas.”

Dean can’t even put the thing into words. Because he’s thought about it, of course he fucking has, and his conversation with Sam had gone damn close to that line several times (where Cas is, exactly, and why he wouldn’t want to come back, and what could be done to convince him or force him to), but Sam, despite his other faults, still has a lick of sense and had chosen not to cross over. Not to strong-arm Dean into admitting - into -

Crowley looks at him for only a second before moving his fingers so that the chair picks itself up.

“Sit down,” he says, and Dean doesn’t want to, but this is a voice he can’t do anything against ( _You do as I tell you, boy_ ), so he grips the back of the chair and barely hesitates before sitting down again; before picking up the glass of sake and downing it in one.

“Now, we need him back. _You_ need him back,” Crowley adds, pushing the bottle towards Dean. “So let’s talk about how to get that winged bastard back.”

“Why were you in Japan?” Dean asks, in a last-ditch attempt to move the conversation to safer grounds, but Crowley won’t have it.

“I’ll tell you about it in a minute, sweetheart. Now, my question is, have you prayed to Castiel?”

Dean pours himself another glass, and, fuck, the thing is even more revolting the second time around.

And the truth is, he hasn’t. In the beginning, he’d told himself it was too dangerous - their warding can’t keep out an archangel, after all, and what if Lucifer heard him and decided that, yeah, he’d better off the Winchesters, just to cover all his bases? What if he decided to come in here and take Sammy instead?

So, yeah.

And the irony of it: it’s been fucking _difficult_ not to pray. In Purgatory, Dean had thought Cas was dead - he’d had fights with Benny over it, and that’s part of the reason why Dean had cared for Benny so damn _much_ (and still does; and when he thinks about how Benny tricked him - because Benny must have _known_ he wouldn’t come back - he’s angry all over again, and he wishes he could yell and punch the stupid bastard, because no one should have to carry this, and it’s so not fair). Because Benny had been so snarky about Cas - the running joke had been that Cas probably had never existed at all, and Dean was some kind of deluded fool - that he’d ended up bringing Dean back. By giving something to punch against, Benny had forced Dean to stand up for Cas, and to believe in Cas even after months and months of loneliness and gore. But, yeah, it had still been hard as fuck to pray in that place. To think that if Cas couldn’t hear him, then he was probably dead; and that if Cas _could_ hear him and yet was choosing not to listen -

_I always come when you call._

But that had been a lie. Dean had only realized during the drive back (he’d noticed how careful Sam was, how hard he was pretending this was an evening like any other) how much he’d given away back there. In front of his brother. In front of _Crowley_. In front of three super villains who want him dead, for Chrissake’s.

And the thing is, it had been for nothing.

Cas had not come.

“He’s in your kitchen, you know,” Crowley says, because he was still waiting for an answer and, yeah, one won’t come out of Dean’s mouth any time soon.

Dean drinks a third glass of _sake_. They’re such small glasses, he reasons, that he’s not really breaking his promise. No way he can get even tipsy on this thing.

“He’s just sitting there, watching the telly.”

Dean clenches his jaw; wills Crowley to say what he needs to hear. And Crowley does.

“Lucifer is not hurting him in any way. He wasn’t even there when I arrived.”

And then, before Dean can even close his eyes in relief, Crowley adds, “Whatever’s wrong with him, _you_ broke him. Not Lucifer. What did you do, Dean?”

And, God, of all the things Dean doesn’t want to think about -

(And what does it say about him, really, that he’s tried not to go there - that he’d sort of _hoped_ Cas hadn’t wanted to come back because he wasn’t able to, and not because - Jesus, he's such a bastard - he’d rather have Cas locked up and tortured than -)

“And what did _you_ do?" he bites back. "That was a suicide mission - do you really hate Lucifer that much? Is your stupid ego that important to you?”

He’s trying to sound angry, but he can’t. He’s not angry at Crowley, anyway. If anything, he’s grateful. When he’d seen the red smoke force itself into Cas’ mouth -

Crowley reaches out, turns his empty glass over on the table with a soft thud.

“You know it’s not,” he says, in exasperation. “So, did you pray to him?”

“What good would that do?”

The Bunker is way too quiet around them. Sam is not someone who oversteps, but still - Dean always notices it when Sam's there, can perceive his presence without even trying to - he hears Sam's stupid music (Sam likes to keep the radio on when he's working), and the sound of his steps as he moves around; also the careful, precise way in which he makes coffee. There are thousands of ways Sam lives around him, because that's what Sam is (and thank God): a living human being. And Crowley - Crowley doesn’t move and doesn’t breathe, because that’s a dead body sitting in front of him. The real thing he is: that red smoke which exploded over their heads in the rundown warehouse. The thought makes Dean feel strangely lonely.

Because Dean also knows, on some level, that Sam is right. That Cas’ body is - just a body. An _it_ kind of thing. That what Cas really is is something else (possibly a blindingly white light, but also that kind of warmth Dean vaguely remembers in his dreams - _Dean Winchester is saved_ , a voice said, except it wasn't a voice at all). But Dean is weak, pathetic, even, and he doesn’t know what to do with white light (with red smoke). He sure as hell wouldn’t be able to sit down with fucking _smoke_ and talk things through and feel this reluctant fondness spreading inside him (also relief, because he's keeping up his end of the bargain and Sam is out having fun and yet Dean doesn't have to deal with this on his own). And, more importantly ( _way_ more importantly, because this is - _everything_ ), he wouldn’t be able to guess at Cas’ mood by spying his clear blue eyes; he wouldn’t be able to calm him down or comfort him by grabbing his arm (solid and warm and completely _real_ under the stupid trench coat). He wouldn’t be able to understand these feelings he barely understands as it is, and the idea of losing them - of losing _Cas_ -

“He reacted to your name, you twat,” Crowley says, startling him out of his misery. “Whatever you did, or didn’t do, he’s not in there _because_ of you - he’s in there _despite_ you. He probably thinks he’s keeping you safe or something, because God knows he’s a good looking lad and all, but he’s never been the sharpest tool in the box.”

“So you think I should pray?” asks Dean, ignoring that.

“ _Yes_ ,” says Crowley, and then he makes that face he always makes when people are being unbearably stupid around him.

“And what about Amara?”

"What about her?"

"How do we gank her?"

“I thought you didn’t like it when I say, _I told you so_.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why do you ask?”

“Crowley -”

“Look, the Horn was the right weapon. Lucifer was the wrong _bearer_. I _told_ you we should have taken care of him first. You went for power - you should have gone for _intent_.”

“What?”

Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Lucifer is a _bad_ guy,” he says, very slowly, and when Dean reaches for the bottle, he drags it back.

“ _You_ ’re a bad guy.”

“He’s _worse_. And he’s unworthy. Now, I have a contact in Kyoto - an antique dealer - and he’s about to get his hands on David’s sling. Apparently, it’s a bit ratty, because leather doesn’t age all that well, but it will do.”

It takes Dean a while to understand what Crowley is even getting at, and when he does, Dean looks away.

“You must be joking," he says, in a low voice. "I’m not doing it. I can't do it.”

“You are _worthy_ , Dean. Time to swallow your self-hatred and own up to it. And now get on your fucking _knees_ and pray to your fucking _angel_ and let’s cross item one off the bloody _list_ ,” he says, and no doubt he does have an actual list, and the last point is probably, _Take control of everything and drown everyone_ , but right now, Dean can't be bothered.

(If Crowley is right - if Cas can hear him -)

But Dean doesn’t get to his knees, because Crowley is here and because that’s not how it is between him and Cas, anyway - mostly, it’s not about a conversation, or even words at all; mostly, he just lies back and think about Cas, or _at_ Cas, somehow, and he tries to sharpen and focus everything he will never have the guts to say until those feelings are too big inside his lungs he can’t breathe and turns on his side instead and tries to think about anything else, but there is _nothing_ else, because this is his life and there are no good thoughts to be had - no happy memories, no quiet evenings of cheer and laughter and friends coming together. All he has are Cas and his brother, and it’s plenty, but at the same time he’s failed them both so damn _much_ he sometimes feels he could die from the pain and the shame of it. _Worthy_ ; as if.

Still, as fucked up as it is, he trusts Crowley. And the truth is, he misses Cas like he would a limb, and not praying to him has been way too hard, so Dean closes his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath.

 _Cas_ , he thinks, calling to mind Cas’ sharp profile, and his tentative smiles, and that stupid tie Dean always wants to reach out and fix. _Cas, if you can hear me - it doesn’t matter about today. And I don’t care why you did it. We’ll fix it, okay? Just - give me something to work with here. You know you have to push him out, and I -_

It's so quiet, he might as well be the last person left alone in the world. The outside world is completely gone, and the inside of his head is murky and black and mostly fear.

 _I need you_ , Dean thinks, and then he adds, mostly to himself, _How do you not_ get _that?_

Because it fucking _hurts_ , but it’s way better than Cas actually _getting_ it - than Cas simply not caring at all.

 _I need you_ , Dean thinks again, and if he mouths the words, it doesn’t even matter. It’s not like he can hide this; it's not like it matters, not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Better a sparrow, living or dead, than no birdsong at all._ ― Catullus
> 
> I love this quote, but it doesn't sound like Catullus at all. I tried combing through his poems, but nothing. If anyone knows what's up, please let me know.


	3. The Best of All Things

“Caaaan you feel your _faith_ flowing through you like a blessed river of milk and _honey_ , sister? Tell me, can you _feel_ it? It’s warm and heavy and it smells _sweeeet_ , sister, because this is your _faith_ and you’d be no one and nothing without it.”

“I can,” sobs the woman, and Castiel smiles.

“Praise be!”

“Praise be!” echoes the congregation.

“God almighty, our Heavenly Father, we call upon you to heal -”

Someone claps their hands, and the television turns off.

Which doesn’t seem fair. Now Castiel will never know if this woman will be healed, and it seemed kind of important - she has two beautiful children, and she’s already -

“Wake _up_. Brother, for _fuck_ ’s sake.”

Oh, okay. Great. Now _Lucifer_ ’s here. Castiel turns his eyes on him, and finds he can’t even see him clearly. Because the thing is, he remembers how it was to be in Lucifer’s presence - he _knows_ it, deep within himself - that day he’d thrown Holy Fire at Michael, Lucifer had simply _looked_ at him, and Castiel had felt - he’d barely managed to remain on his feet. 

Of course, all Dean had seen: his own brother, and that was certainly unfair. But Castiel had seen - he’d _seen_ -

And now he can’t. Or, he _mostly_ can’t. There is a faint outline of purest red around Lucifer’s human shape, and a vague glittering of fury and resentment and that love for God Lucifer has never given up on, because loving God is _everything_ , and certainly everything angels are, and they are nothing ( _nothing_ ) without it, and Castiel does understand how deep that love cuts, and how much deeper it goes - how much more it _hurts_ \- when one knows it to be unrequited.

Useless and unwanted and completely, utterly _wasted_ : a perfect summary of what all of them now are. Even Hell has more purpose than Heaven, and even demons don’t slaughter each other with as much enthusiasm and determination as angels now do.

(Because Lucifer may be unable to ever stop loving his Father, but that Father has surely given up on loving _him_ ; if He ever did, that is - if He ever loved any of them.)

Castiel doesn’t want to think about that. Vaguely, he turns back to the television, gives it a little pat. The thing, however, stays dumb and dark.

“Castiel? Come on, don’t freak out on me now.”

_Freak out?_

“I’m not freaking out. Why are you here? What do you want?”

“Behold, he speaks,” Lucifer says, mockingly, but now Castiel looks at him again, he sees there is something - _wrong_ with him (or, more than what’s usually wrong with him: that deep-seated stench of demon and darkness sticking to his skin and Grace).

“I need you to call your friends.”

Castiel blinks.

This was not the deal. Whatever friends he has, he doesn’t want them dragged into this. _He_ ’s the one at fault here - he allowed Dean to take on a Knight of Hell on his own, and he allowed Sam to pursue a suicide mission, and he even allowed - God forgive him - an innocent to _die_ so that Sam’s mission could be carried out.

“Leave them be. You promised you’d defeat Amara. I fail to see what they have to do with that.”

Lucifer takes a step towards him, and Castiel sees it, even if it’s very, very slight: he sees Lucifer stumbling, then leaning back against the wall again as if he’d never meant to move at all.

“Hey, it’s not like I _want_ them involved. But I must admit - I am with our dear old aunt right now and there is - a complication.”

Castiel turns his head, pats the television again.

“A complication?”

Lucifer closes his eyes, breathes in.

“Just _call_ them,” he says, and Castiel sees the faintest trace of red fire under his human skin.

He thinks about the first time he saw Sam Winchester - the reality of him, that is, and not those pictures of worry and love plastered all over Dean’s soul. About Sam’s smell, which had been the same as Lucifer: demon and fire and anger and a desperate need to prove himself. He remembers how much Sam’s smell has changed - these days, there is no more fire under Sam’s skin; no more wish for revenge. There’s still a glimpse of demon in him, of course. That will never go away (he was claimed for Hell as a baby, and he gave himself up to Hell as a young man, but his soul was marked for Lucifer even before he was born, and that will never be erased). Then again, humans are much more resilient than his brothers give them credit for.

After all, there is a trace of demon in Dean as well, and Dean is -

“No,” he says, and then he feels the faintest trace of pain - the same barely there push he always feels when one of his brothers is hurt.

Lucifer crosses his arms over his chest, and for a second, he looks perfectly human. His other self (the chaos and the glory and the blinding, scorching fire) is hidden even to Castiel’s true eyes. Instead, he somehow becomes what he’s pretending to be: a man wearing the same kind of clothes Dean usually wears -

(Dean’s face, pale and scared, yelling at him; Dean calling his name across the burned orange flames of Holy Fire.)

\- and also a man whose face is ravaged by loss and despair.

(Naomi had been the one to figure it out, of course: who Lucifer’s chosen vessel used to be. She was not one to overlook any detail, no matter how small. And, even in the very beginning, Castiel had prayed for the man’s soul - he’d opened his palms up towards the Heavens and begged for Nicholas Smith to be forgiven and reunited with his wife and child. 

Castiel had done it out of duty, though, because in the beginning, he hadn’t understood how anyone would say yes to the Devil. He hadn’t understood despair and being forced into more and more difficult choices and realizing your own life isn’t worth all that much if you can’t live it with the person you love.

He hadn’t understood _humanity_ , that is.

And now -) 

So Lucifer acts human, and maybe it’s not an act at all.

“Please,” he says, and Castiel tries to ignore that; tries to focus on what’s underneath - on a battle Lucifer has once caused and that’s claimed the lives of so many -

(Then again, _he_ ’s caused wars as well. He’s killed _scores_ of his own brothers. There is blood on his hands that’s _never_ going to be washed away.

_Cassie, you know I will always have your back_ , says Balthazar’s voice inside his head, and that’s way more painful than even giving himself up to Lucifer has been.)

He manages not to speak, but it’s a very close thing, and he knows Lucifer can sense it.

“She’s _got_ me, Castiel. And I can’t get away.”

“You said you could defeat her.”

“I _believed_ I could.”

“You were always much too proud of your abilities,” Castiel says, and he knows he should feel - disgust, or hatred, even, but there’s nothing inside his heart. "Arrogance is a sin, you know," he adds, flatly.

(There _must_ be nothing, because Naomi was right all along, and he can’t seem to function otherwise - all those - _things_ he’d tasted as a human - loneliness and fear and dejection - Naomi was right. Angels were never meant to _feel_. And those things have nested and festered inside him, and now - because even the holy books had it wrong. Feelings _are_ dangerous, and love is no saving grace. If love were _enough_ \- but it isn’t. Much better to turn it all off. To be a blunt instrument, since he’s apparently incapable of serving any purpose whatsoever.)

So he’s only mildly unhappy about having Lucifer so close, but, then again, he’s also mildly unhappy in seeing Lucifer unhappy. Whatever else he is, Lucifer is a Prince of Heaven, and there is something heart-wrenching in this - in this _man_ , his shoulders slumped, his hands now pressed against his face, as if trying to hold the tears in.

They wouldn’t be tears of pain, though. They would be tears of anger. Castiel doesn’t know Lucifer very well, but he knows as much. 

“I know you understand me, brother. I ask you again, for the third time: call them. Let them _help_ me. Let them help _you_.”

He tries to straighten up, then, and when he finally manages it, and crosses his arms on his chest again, Castiel can see he’s indeed been crying, and that they were tears of blood.

The red streaks on his cheeks make him look _less_ vulnerable, though. A cornered creature, ready to fight to the death.

“Even if I wanted to, I have no way to reach them,” Castiel says, and he’s about to add something else when the room shakes around them, making a case of beer fall to the ground and the bottles within crash in a thousand pieces.

“You know that is not true. Amara is poisoning me, and Sam Winchester is starting to feel it on his own skin. There is a bond there, brother.”

Lucifer is not lying. That pain Castiel felt vaguely, like a distant storm, is getting stronger now. He has the irrational instinct to make the green bottles whole again, or at least sweep the shards up, but he knows that wouldn’t accomplish anything. This is not a physical place. This is his mind. And if Amara is torturing Lucifer - if she’s preying on Lucifer’s Grace - it won’t be long before she finds her way to Castiel’s.

“Sam is your vessel, not mine. Try to reach him, if you must. I can’t.”

Lucifer suddenly hisses in annoyance, turns his head. Spits some blood on the ground, then wipes his mouth clean with his sleeve - an ineffective, childish gesture.

“Pain is my _only_ way to Sam now. And it is not enough. I -”

This time, Lucifer doubles over, and Amara’s blow rebounds against Castiel - a dull pain in his stomach, and the strong, human instinct to get the hell away from it - Castiel stands up, his blade appearing on his palm, and he grips the table with his left hand as he pushes against the dark wave crashing down over him.

Whatever he’s feeling, though, is nothing compared to what Amara is inflicting upon Lucifer.

Because Lucifer is not crying, or yelling, but Castiel can taste it without even trying (it is excruciating; and, more than that, it is _blasphemous_ ), and wonders if his brothers can perceive it as well, and what they will make of it. He thinks about Michael, who was once righteous, the best of them all. He thinks about Raphael’s strength and determination (Raphael: the brother he’s killed) and he thinks about Gabriel, who died to save Dean.

His blade falls back into non-being as he takes a step forward, and then another, and finally stumbles to where Lucifer is trying to stand up again, his palm leaving a bloody handprint on the wall behind him. He’s breathing hard, and he’s having a much harder time to control himself - Castiel can see the faint outline of flames again, and underneath it, the secret, forgotten beauty of his Grace - a majestic light, sweeter and brighter than anything Castiel has ever seen.

When he feels Castiel’s nearness, Lucifer reaches out, closes a hand on Castiel’s arm; and Castiel helps him up, watches as Lucifer collapses against the wall, wipes the blood from his own cheeks and neck.

“You are strong,” he says. “You can _take_ this. You can take _her. Fight_ , brother.”

“I don’t have,” Lucifer grits out, “anything.”

He takes a few shallow breaths, and his fingers on Castiel’s arm become an iron vise.

“You _tricked_ me, kid. I have been cut off from Heaven too long, and I thought your connection to the place would make me strong again. Or, you know: strong _enough_.”

Castiel looks down. His eyes skim on the handprint, and something moves deep inside him - something that has nothing to do with Lucifer or Amara. Something that is pain and hurt and yet sweet as honey against his lips. 

“But you lied.”

“I did no such thing,” Castiel whispers, moving his gaze and wrenching himself away from the feeling.

“They despise me,” Lucifer counters, almost leaning on Castiel, saying the words right in Castiel’s ear. “But they _hate_ you. You are _nothing_. Even your _wings_ have been taken from you.”

That is true, so Castiel says nothing.

“ _Call_ him, _now_ , or we both die.”

Again, Castiel sees Sam in his mind’s eye. He sees Sam as Lucifer sees Sam, because Lucifer’s hand is still on his arm, and all there is is a road in the darkness - and then Sam’s eyes close as Lucifer shudders, and Castiel feels blood trickling down his own neck, and he leans his head, lightly, against Lucifer, to offer strength and comfort.

Soon, he will be too late even for that. He can feel Amara getting closer and closer, her grip on Lucifer’s Grace becoming fiercer as she tastes him and understands him and twists her will precisely where it will hurt the most.

Then Sam opens his eyes again. Castiel can see part of a wheel, now, and Sam’s long legs - he’s wearing jeans, and there is a stain of red wax on his right thigh -

(Sam had been there too; a silent presence staring at Castiel, unwilling to come closer, to let Lucifer hurt him again. There had been strength in him, and also guilt, and fear.)

“Castiel, please - _help_ me. She’s going to _kill_ me,” Lucifer says, his voice a bit hoarse; and his other hand comes up to grip the back of Castiel’s jacket as his forehead falls on Castiel’s shoulder.

“What does she want?” Castiel replies, in a half whisper, and he tries to come up with a plan, or even a coherent thought, but Lucifer is heavy in his arms and his own mind is sluggish, unfocused.

“She wants Dad to come down and save me.”

Castiel glances at the top of Lucifer’s head - sees the dirty blond hair, turning slightly grey behind his ear, and wishes he could feel anything; wishes his own silence could mean something different.

“I know he won’t.”

Lucifer takes another deep breath, and then he stands up. His right hand comes up to Castiel’s neck, wipes the skin clean off his blood. A shy, peculiar gesture. Castiel wonders if Lucifer is somehow erasing any trace of his own vulnerability (his own mortality) rather than acting on Castiel’s behalf.

“You think he will come for you?”

There is no jealousy in Lucifer’s voice. He seems curious, and out of breath. Whatever Amara is doing to him, it’s brutal. Any other angel would probably be dead by now. An archangel’s strength: both blessing and curse.

Castiel remembers, briefly, the centaur Chiron, who begged for death for more than a century. He wonders if this will be their fate - to be trapped inside his a life he wishes could be his - that kitchen: the place where Dean had smiled at him as Charlie and Sam bickered over books; the place where, if Dean had allowed him to, Castiel would have waited for him, every night, because Dean has taught him humans need to sleep, and Castiel wouldn’t wish to disturb him - he would wait here, instead, for Dean to come in, to stumble on his lap still half asleep, to push his unshaven face against the curve of Castiel’s neck; for Dean to say what Dean never said ( _I missed you_ ). He wonders if they will agonize together, the mightiest of all archangels and the lowest of all seraphim, trapped like butterflies on a pin; waiting for Amara to finish them off as everything Castiel has known and loved fades into oblivion in the world his Father created for His pleasure.

“I don’t know,” he says, softly, and then the room shakes again.

Amara is almost there.

“Dean Winchester is Michael’s true vessel. He’s - worthy,” says Lucifer, sounding like he has to spit the word out. “Castiel, I _beg_ of you: call him.”

Of course. Castiel has been stupid once again. This is what Lucifer was talking about all along. He’s not interested in Sam, who has refused him and cast him down. He wants Castiel to call _Dean_.

(Dean shouting, _Castiel, show yourself_ , and the way his voice had almost trembled; the way he had waited for an answer. The sudden wind inside Castiel’s mind, cold and forceful. Alive.)

“I can’t. Dean is not my vessel. I have no claim over him.”

Lucifer laughs. It’s a small, pitiful laugh, cut short by the sound of blood in his mouth (again, Lucifer wipes his mouth clean, and now his sleeve is dark and dripping red).

“You were always a bad liar. You have a claim over each other - you think I don’t know that? Every demon in Hell is mocking the creature you chose to become, little brother.”

Lucifer is right, but Castiel doesn’t know if there was ever a _choice_. Sometimes he thinks he can barely remember his life from - before. He occasionally thinks of the garden where he used to spend so much time. Its charm, of course: not the grass, or the flowers. Not even the clearest of blue skies. No, Castiel had liked it because of the gentle soul who’d lived there. The man had been a rainbow of quiet colours - scarlet green and light orange and a kind or purple which wasn’t a colour at all, but rather a memory of a woman long dead. A woman who’d carried the man inside her, and had brought him into the world, and had loved him deeply and unreservedly every day of his life. The man’s ribbon had been cut long before his mother’s, and sometimes Castiel would hear her talk over his grave. He knew the man could hear her as well, because his soul became golden and bright, then, and the kite he’d loved so much as a child soared ever higher.

So, yes, Castiel had loved the _humanity_ of it. He’d thought he could understand _feelings_. He’d thought he could _bear_ them.

And when he’d first touched Dean’s soul, he’d found that to be an illusion. He would walk inside Dean’s dreams, unseen and unremembered, just to try and make sense of it all, because this man was - just that: a man. And as much as Castiel felt the beating heart of Jimmy Novak inside him, Dean’s heart mattered much, much _more_. And there was no rhyme or reason in that (Castiel had understood Jimmy in a way he’d never understood Dean, just because Jimmy had been his since the day of his birth.

And Dean - Dean wasn't; or, he shouldn’t have been.

Dean was just Dean. And if he was anyone’s, he was Michael’s.)

So Castiel still doesn’t know _what_ this is, and if it’s a matter of destiny or free will.

What he knows: Dean’s voice as he was calling for him - the weight of Dean’s soul brushing against him -

“I won’t. I won’t risk his life, not even to save the world.”

Lucifer exhales, leans his head back against the wall. He doesn’t look like a man now. Not even a bit. Castiel can even see the faint outline of his wings against the yellow tiles. Like his own, they are mere stumps - the shadow of burned down bones - but there is still strength and magic in them. They stretch up and up, reaching the ceiling, curving against it, seemingly coming back towards Castiel as if to swallow him whole.

And then Lucifer smiles his salesman smile.

(A smile the demon Crowley, of course, always tries to mimic; and Castiel knows he is sometimes successful, knows the humans he’s looked over are sometimes frightened of it; but he also knows that the real thing is quite different.

A sudden echo of words into his mind: _You wanted my_ throne _. You plotted to_ replace _me. As if_ ambition _and_ posturing _were the same as_ majesty.)

“If you die, Castiel, he will _never_ forgive you. He will _never_ be whole again.”

And Castiel closes his eyes as all the things he’s tried so hard to burn and forget about himself knock him off his feet and drown him and blind him.

He _loves_ Dean -

( _There is a right and a wrong here, and you know it_ , Dean had said. _If there’s anything worth dying for, this is it_. And Cas had never realized until that moment he was actually _afraid_ to die - he’d fought before, and he’d marched into battle never expecting he would walk back out, and he’d never thought twice about it, but this man - this _man_ was something else, and Cas had been desperate to see what he would do next. He’d wanted to walk inside his dreams, again and again; he’d wanted, and it had been a groundless, irrational wish, to show Dean his favourite places - the quiet silence to be found under the arctic ice, and the secret nests of the _jirrgan_ birds, shining with blue and red and coloured stones, and the banyan tree under which a young prince had waited and waited for God to disappear inside himself. He hadn’t recognized it as love then, of course. Angels know nothing of love.) 

\- and Dean _loves_ him - 

(When they’d met in Purgatory, Dean had been little more than a forgotten soul, and yet, what more can any man ever be? And Dean’s soul is always, always glowing a quiet and dull gold, even when Dean’s guilt and pain and shame are burning the corners black and blood red. And when Dean sees Cas, he never says anything much, but there is an even deeper colour there, shining out from his heart and his mouth and his eyes. Something that Cas has seen before, but never directed towards him. Because angels are unworthy of love.)

and that will never, ever _change_.

(Cas doesn’t know how humans bear it, and what Dean wants him to do. It doesn’t seem _enough_ , somehow, to look over Dean and to make sure Sam is safe and to put his Grace and his blade at the brothers’ service. And yet it doesn’t seem _right_ to offer himself up the way a man would - to walk into Dean’s embrace, to dip his head in the curve of Dean’s neck, to ask Dean if he could share his bed as well as his dreams. No, Cas won’t do it, because he knows nothing of humanity, and if Dean wanted any of that to happen he would ask himself. Surely there could be no doubt as to Cas’ answer?

They once stood facing each other, both looking up from the abyss - a fallen man and a fallen angel - and Cas, in his desperation, had let it all out - he’d told Dean, quite clearly, that he would stand by his side forever, unless Dean chose to kill him. And Cas hadn’t raised his hand, not even to defend himself, and Dean had chosen not to kill him. And that will have to be enough.)

Lucifer is breathing hard now, and there is an ugly red stain spreading across his chest - the only mark left by an invisible blade - the only way Cas’ mind can make sense of something that doesn’t make any sense at all - but his pain, and Amara’s fingertips now brushing against Cas’ Grace, are as remote and irrelevant as dead stars.

Because now he also hears Dean’s voice, low and familiar and beloved.

_I need you_ , Dean says, and Cas feels like his heart will split down the middle, because he is no one and nothing and doesn’t know what to do. He knows Lucifer is right, and Dean will never forgive him if he allows himself to die without a fight, but Lucifer understands nothing of love, and Cas will never, never put Dean in the line of fire. Not even to save the world, and certainly not to save his own life, no matter how much importance Dean attaches to it.

There is no more time. There is no destiny, no choice.

_I need you._ Please _, Cas_ , Dean says, and Cas closes his eyes because this is - too much.

He falls to his knees, presses his palms against the cold ground (feels a piece of green glass cut into his skin, make him bleed) and tries what he’s never tried before: to pray not with righteousness, and not with fury, and not with resentment and despair and guilt - to pray without thinking of faith or Grace. To pray, simply, with love.

_Eli_ , he calls, closing his hand against that piece of glass, that little thing which is like Dean, because it hurts more than any blade and yet is real and mundane and so very _simple_ , a miracle he cannot begin to understand and is not worthy of. _Eli, lema sabachthani?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this ending is not pretty (and I didn’t want God to intervene - I want to wait and see how the _hell_ SPN will work its way out if it first, because if Chuck is really coming back, and if he's really God, wouldn't that change everything?), and I know I always say I'm a sucker for happy endings, so I'm sorry if this upset anyone. If it helps: I know it's sad, but I don't see it as completely hopeless because Cas' arc has become a Jesus arc (which is reflected here) and we all know what happened to Jesus his death and crucifixion. Still, I'm sorry I couldn't make it any fluffier than this.
> 
> _And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying,_ Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? _that is to say,_ My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? ― Matthew, 27:46
> 
> _The best of all things is something entirely outside your grasp: not to be born, not to be, to be nothing. But the second best thing for you is to die soon._ ― Friedrich Nietzsche, _The Birth of Tragedy_
> 
> _Jirrgan_ is the Gumbaynggirr name of the satin bowerbird. If you’re not familiar with the nests these Australian birds build, go on _youtube_ right now and check it out - it’s completely and utterly OMG.
> 
> As for Nicholas Smith - we were never given a surname for Nick, so I had to pick one and I thought - Nick was clearly chosen because of the Devil, and there is this very old folktale about the Devil bargaining with a blacksmith, and it’s apparently the oldest story we have (it goes back to the Bronze Age) and so, well, it seemed appropriate.


End file.
